


art thievery for fun and profit

by gdgdbaby



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-03
Updated: 2013-01-03
Packaged: 2017-11-23 11:48:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/621795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gdgdbaby/pseuds/gdgdbaby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So in retrospect, befriending the daughter of the head of Interpol probably wasn't the best decision Scott could've ever made in his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	art thievery for fun and profit

**Author's Note:**

> teen wolf heist au snippet, written for advent. originally posted on [livejournal](http://gdgdbaby.livejournal.com/99112.html).

So in retrospect, befriending the daughter of the head of Interpol probably wasn't the best decision Scott could've ever made in his life.

"Conflict of interest notwithstanding, I still can't decide whether it was monumentally stupid or absolutely brilliant," Stiles is saying. He twists two wires together and steps back from the elaborate lattice of bombs he's just strung up around the vault door. "Both, probably."

"I didn't do it to get in with her dad, you know," Scott replies, frowning. "Allison's a genuinely nice person."

"I'm sure most of the people we steal from are genuinely nice, but you don't see me going around seeking out their attention. That's just asking for trouble."

"Hey, it's not like I knew who she was when we met—"

"Of course you didn't." Stiles checks the timer in his hands and backpedals to the far wall, pulling Scott away with him. The bombs go off a moment later, one dull bang after another.

The vault door creaks open slowly. Scott steps forward.

A firm hand wraps around his wrist. "Not yet," Stiles mutters. There's a quiet click overhead. "Alright, you're good. That was the building's alarm system shutting off."

"She just doesn't like people knowing," Scott continues, as they slip through the heavy double doors of the vault. "I think it's some kind of security hazard? Like, if somebody knew who her dad was, they might target her. I don't know why she told me, but—"

"Dude, that's your in," Stiles interrupts, scanning the rows of safety deposit boxes with quick eyes. "She clearly trusts you enough to unload sensitive information. Think about all the shit we could do if we had Interpol in our back pocket." He grins when Scott sends him an unimpressed look. "Okay, here it is. Box 497." He waggles his fingers. "Work your magic."

Scott sighs and steps up to the keypad. This entire enterprise is Lydia's brainchild, as things are wont to be. Tonight it's some lost Vermeer being kept in storage whilst en route to the next private collector in a long line of hopefuls. Lydia appreciated fine art—not only for its own sake, of course, but also for the way the rich and willing loved to snap it up again for whatever she charged after she'd stolen it.

Stiles prances around the rest of the vault as Scott works, humming to himself. For reasons beyond him, it's always easier for Scott to subsume himself into the right headspace for hacking when Stiles is fiddling with his own shit in the background, a comfortable habit that has somehow persisted since their high school days: Stiles, who could never sit still, could never resist taking a saw to their latest project in woodshop or setting off a controlled explosion in chemistry, and Scott who always worked tirelessly alongside him.

He finishes rewiring the keypad and punches the new code in. The door pops open slowly. No alarms go off.

"Yes!" Stiles whispers, and leans forward with a flailing fist-pump in the air—except when they peer into the slot together, there's no painting to be found. The only thing inside the deposit box is a tiny bomb lying innocuously against the metal, counting down the seconds to detonation.

Stiles' face goes white. He slams the box shut again. "What the _hell_?" Scott says. "Where's the painting?"

"Lydia said it would be here. She said box 497." Stiles pulls his phone out and smacks it against his palm. "Shit, no service this deep underground. Listen, somebody must've taken the Vermeer before we got here. Who the fuck—"

"Looking for this, boys?" comes a new voice from the door of the vault.

Scott whips around, gaze zooming in on the rolled up canvas before traveling up. The guy's tall and lanky and looks vaguely familiar, and the line of his mouth is canted upward with faint amusement.

"Who are _you_?" Stiles asks, frowning.

He cocks his head to side, as if weighing his options. "Isaac," he replies.

Stiles inhales sharply. "Wait, you're one of—"

"Give us the painting," Scott interrupts, stepping forward.

"Sorry, no can do," Isaac says, shrugging. He turns on his heel. "Derek Hale sends his regards."

"I fucking knew it!" Stiles yelps, as Isaac leaves the way he came. "That asshole stole our job—"

The bomb in the deposit box chooses this moment to explode. Naturally, this sets off all the alarms in the goddamn building, exactly what they'd been trying to avoid by hacking the system in the first place. The heavy vault door starts sliding shut and Scott feels Stiles' hands against his back, catapulting him forward from behind. He swivels on his heel when he's out, sees a flash of troubled brown eyes from the wrong side of the door, Stiles mouthing the word _go_ —and then all Scott's got is his own reflection staring back at him from two feet of solid titanium.

Stiles is right, of course. One of them getting caught was bad enough; Scott staying out of a sense of duty wouldn't help matters any. There's nothing he can do but run. Armed guards are already streaming in when he hits the ground floor, so he keeps going up until he finds their original Plan B escape route. He squints through the window—Lydia's got a motorboat waiting on the far bank of the Rhine that he can just make out.

"Will your friend be okay?" Isaac calls over the blaring sirens. He's leaning against a wall on the far side of the corridor, Vermeer still in hand, looking wholly unconcerned.

Scott shakes his head and uses his elbow to break through the glass. It's a fifty-foot drop into the river from here, which is fairly doable. He hoists himself up onto the frame. "He'll be fine, no thanks to you."

"I'm sure," Isaac says, raising an eyebrow. "We'll see each other again."

He melts back into the shadows. Probably picked that particular skill set up from his tenure with Derek. Scott scowls at the thought, and jumps.


End file.
